


Bound less

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Silmarillion Prompts [32]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, Light Bondage, M/M, Referenced Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7286113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon and Maedhros try the bondage thing again. They try twice, in fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound less

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snartha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snartha/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tie me up, pin me down, love me hard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2647721) by [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss). 



> 0\. A sequel to my previous Russingon bondage fic, at the request of my dear Snartha.  
> 1\. This was titled 'Boundless' when I posted it on Tumblr, but I added the space because I thought it was funnier.

_Tirion_

“No,” said Maitimo, dodging Findekáno’s hands.

Findekáno’s expression cycled rapidly through surprise, hurt, and ended in confused concern. “Why not? Don’t you trust me? I thought you liked it last time, but – Was I wrong? Did you regret it? Was I – ”

“No to all of those questions,” said Maitimo, smiling at his consternation and reaching out to ruffle Findekáno’s hair.

Findekáno dodged in turn, scowling. “Stop that, none of your ‘Oh, sweet little cousin’ fond condescension. ‘No’ doesn’t answer my first question. Why do you not wish me to bind you as we did before?” His voice dropped, and he looked at Maitimo through lowered lashes. It was a glance that did more for Maitimo’s already rising ardor than the fact that Findekáno was mostly naked and settled astride his hips. “I thought we were rather onto something, there.”

“It is nothing to do with how much I enjoyed it,” said Maitimo, his own voice husky as he laid his hands to Findekáno’s waist. “But to start, it is to do with that fact after the last time, my mother noticed the marks on my wrists and was far more curious than I had guile at hand to deflect.”

Findekáno scoffed. “You are a Fëanorion, you are supposed to speak, breathe, and crap guile! Your little brother, he who looks like your father built a manikin of himself in his workshop, he used to spin such lies to Turukáno that I once had to talk my brother out of a panic that Haru was secretly in negotiations with the Teleri to sell our family for chum. And this was when Curvo was still too young to hold a hammer bigger than a daisy! Don’t tell me your kind lack for guile when I’ve seen you come out of the womb with it.” He poked a finger into Maitimo’s chest. “And I’ve seen your diplomacy at work and know how good you are at masking intent.”

Maitimo pulled his thumbs over the points of Findekáno’s hips. “That is either very flattering of you, or very insulting – a suspiciously Fëanorion trait in itself.”

“Just as my father feared,” muttered Findekáno. “You are rubbing off on me.”

“ _My_ father would call that a silver-lining. But back to my defense, at the time my mother confronted me, I was rather too much in a haze of remembered pleasure and lingering lassitude to wield such duplicity.” Findekáno grinned smugly and Maitimo let his thumps dip down the lines of Findekáno’s taut stomach. “So you see, I cannot really be blamed. What would _you_ have said caused the burn marks on my wrists, o master of lies?”

“Easy.” Findekáno folded his arms and leaned back against Maitimo’s bent knees, though Maitimo did not fail to notice the way he arched his hips slightly to urge Maitimo’s trailing fingers lower. “ ‘I borrowed one of Makalaurë’s shirts and the sleeves were too tight and cut off circulation.’ ‘I went hunting in ill-fitting arm guards and bruised my wrists.’ ‘I was training a horse when the reins got looped around my forearms and – ’ ”

“For that one she’d be wondering why my entire _hand_ hadn’t been yanked free of my body,” said Maitimo, laughing. “She knows the size of the young gelding I’ve been working with.”

“But she needn’t know the deeds of the young stallion you’ve been working under,” said Findekáno, tossing his head and sending his braids flying, and Maitimo groaned.

“Findaráto would throw a wine bottle at your head for that one,” he said. “Heavy-handed, unpoetic, self-praising…”

“Fine, yes, I am a terrible wordsmith and overburdened with ego,” said Findekáno. “But I am still better at thinking on my feet than you are. So. You do not wish to be bound because your mother’s eyes are too sharp and your wits are too slow. That is…rather a weak excuse. You do not seem to mind when I mark you in other ways, after all.” He bent down and fastened his mouth to Maitimo’s throat in demonstration, and Maitimo’s blood rose as Findekáno sucked teasingly at his skin.

“I _do_ mind,” he said roughly, though he made no move to push Findekáno away, tilting his head back and letting Findekáno press his tongue to his pulse. “I have told you, time and again, to keep to the area my clothes cover…”

“Borrow one of Makalaurë’s fetching, high-collared, knit things,” said Findekáno, sitting back. He wiped his mouth and looked with some satisfaction at his work. “Then the first example I offered would work even better.”

“The lack of good excuses is really not the reason I told you no.”

“Then what _is_ , you cagey ginger bastard? Tell me, before I punish you further.”

“The real reason has everything to do with how much I enjoyed it the first time,” said Maitimo, and it was his turn to glance up at Findekáno through his lashes. “Turnabout is fair play, sweet little – well-muscled, stallion of a cousin of mine.” He smiled as Findekáno gave a vengeful twist of his hips. “And while I would deeply enjoy another bout of being restrained by your talented hands, first I want to share with you the pleasure I experienced so acutely under your ties.” His hands found and caught Findekáno’s wrists, and he smiled slowly. “It is _my_ turn to bind  _you_.”

“Oh,” said Findekáno. “For Eru’s bloody sake, Maitimo, you could have just _said_ so.”

 

* * *

 

_Hithlum_

“No,” said Maedhros, and Fingon stilled, his protest caught behind his lips as he bit his tongue. “No, I can do it.”

Fingon looked like he wanted to protest, but instead he held still, stretched out against the fine linen sheets of Barad Eithel. Maedhros took a moment to take him in: the broad brown shoulders, the strong muscles of his arms finely displayed as he stretched them over his head, his solid waist further enhanced by the thin gold chain that looped over his hips. There was a gold chain around his neck too, a chain that held a certain ring, and Maedhros brushed the fingers of his left hand over it before raising them to Fingon’s chin and pressing his thumb to Fingon’s lips.

There were lines at the corners of Fingon’s eyes now; lines drawn by the deeds of Alqualondë and the glaciers of the Helcaraxë and the beat of Thorondor’s wings. Fingon looked older, harsher, but his warmth was undiminished by the scars on his skin or the weight of duty. And his eyes were unchanged, bright and blue and enough to unman Maedhros with every time he caught Fingon looking at him with as much love as he ever had.

(But with the slightest bit less trust.)

They were definitely blue eyes, not gold, though Maedhros sometimes woke in the night, drenched with sweat because he was convinced this was not so.

(No one else, not even Fingon himself, would be able to perceive that slight lessening of trust between them. But Maedhros had grown good at reading truths hidden behind the eyes.)

(In truth, he would have understood it less if Fingon’s trust had been unwavering.)

Fingon was waiting for him now, and Maedhros realized he had been nearly a minute without speaking as he studied Fingon’s face.

So he traced Fingon’s mouth gently, and then turned his attention to the ties at the headboard. Fingon shifted slightly, his impatience and doubt returning, and Maedhros ignored him.

“Are you sure that – ”

“Of course I can.”

“I mean, are you sure that you _want_ – ”

“Hush.” Maedhros stretched out, and with his one hand, tied an efficient knot around Fingon’s right wrist, securing him to the headboard. Fingon tugged at it experimentally, but it held fast. It was not a knot that would be recognizable by any in Fingolfin’s ranks, but it was a knot that Maedhros had witnessed being tied many a time. In far lower light, to be sure, but it had happened enough that he had memorized it.

And a lack of limbs had never posed a problem for Sauron’s Orcs.

Maedhros did not say any of this out loud, knowing from experience that the light in Fingon’s eyes would turn to horror, or worse, to pity, and from there all hope of amorous activity would be lost. _It is a matter of practicality, not trauma_ , he thought, quite reasonably in his estimation. _At least I can credit the yrch for being the first facilitators of adjusting to my disability._

He sat back, and smiled at the sight Fingon presented, right arm stretched above his head. “You see?” he said. “Now let me do the other.”


End file.
